


amis, amoureux

by writingwords



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, because I said so, ben is a romantic in this, kinda victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:13:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29018004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingwords/pseuds/writingwords
Summary: the second son of Sir Jonno, the Baronet, has nobody he can truly be himself arounduntil he does
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	amis, amoureux

**Author's Note:**

> just a wip to hopefully make the wait for thursday's ep shorter, set in the victorian/edwardian era but expect historical inaccuracies   
> happy proposal week, thanks for reading! x

Callum’s mother died in a fit of coughs that stained her white camisole red.

Of course, then, Callum’s only memory of the lady was that of a warm bosom and nighttime tales of the bugaboo so when Stuart enquired, a few years later, “Ma were beautiful, weren’t she?”, the little boy nodded as to not upset the one friend he had.

The Baronet, for they were not permitted to call him ‘Father’, kept the boy indoor always. To shield him from the White Plague, he told passing nobility. Too young to lie about the conception of his bruises, the quiet, glaring truth.

So, by extension, the only people he would see were the manor staff and his brother.

“When will the Baronet let me out?” He had asked.

The podgy boy, half a tongue sticking out as he fashioned his brocade into a ball, scoffed. “The old fool will not.”

And it was as simple as that.

A creaking alerted the two boys of an unwelcome visitor, and at once they ran to their assigned seats on the Chesterfield, Stuart’s ball of silk sitting oddly upon his lap.

“Put that on, boy.” Spat the Baronet, and the two received a clip behind their ear for the misdemeanour, as if Callum were also responsible.

Stuart shuffled beside him, the upholstery dipping and rising as he draped the heavy thing around his broadening shoulders.

Once, he was as small as Callum, and the two could hide under the giant rock-chair and its glorious wooden curvature, pretending to have their own adventures of pirates and kings.

Callum’s gaze slid toward it, then, and the ageing armchair looked away, sat in the corner of the room, lonely and neglected.

“You must look proper.” sneered the torso, moving to stand in front of Callum, blocking his view of the chair. “For it is the young master’s birthday soiree after all.”

He said it with an air of disgust, as he did with most things in relation to Callum, who kept his head bowed.

His father, a looming man with a cruel tongue and heavy fists, always instructed Callum to keep his head bowed. So much so that if you asked the boy what Sir Jonno looked like, he could only stare at you vacantly, as if such a question was unheard of.

Thus, on the day of his soiree, as the lines of viscounts and esquires and other higher-ups with difficult pronunciations filled into the dining room, Callum Highway, the youngest son of the Baronet, came to the startling conclusion that he was unable to discern his parents’ faces from any other adults’.

He stared into his silverware, turning the spoon at an angle in an effort to make out the lines of the Baronet’s profile.

“Did you like the goose, Callum?” Asked a voice opposite his seat at the dining table.

In his surprise, Callum dropped the spoon, and it clattered loud enough to interrupt the conversation of the other guests.

“Yes he did,” answered the Baronet for him, stamping on the boy’s foot under the table. “And it’s his favourite next, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stuart, of course, is abstaining. As he should.” The giant roared, Callum crinkling his nose to evade the breathy laughter soaked with cherry.

He looked toward his friend, who had clenched his fists and adorned a rage on his face. But Stuart softened into a forlorn smile when Callum caught his eye.

 _I shall save him some custard_ , thought Callum.

The guests rattled on, their plates clearing eventually, and the Baronet squeezed above Callum’s elbow and hissed in his ear. “The Duke’s grandson is here, I expect only the best behaviour.”

“Yes, sir.”

However, when it came to choosing between granting his friend dessert and adhering to his father’s demands – well, there was no choice at all for Callum.

So, once the gentry had cleaned their bowls of their custard, and he had made sure his father was distracted with pleasantries, Callum left without a glance to the Duke’s grandson.

The manor’s kitchens were far from the dining room, and he pitied the staff who had to carry the meals to and fro.

There were many doors on the way, each one leading in and out to another servant’s quarter or bedchamber or hiding place, but Callum stopped upon the heavy wooden door and pushed it open.

The kitchens were vast, embellished with copper and sprinkled with sunlight streaming in from the garden door, which had been left ajar. If Callum had not spent his childhood exploring the place, he would have lost himself in the size of the place.

But he was a boy with only one friend, and so he was able to set off toward the nook by the oven without hesitation, and as if to reward him for his loneliness, he saw the leftover custard in a big pot.

“You ain’t supposed to be there!”

Callum turned around, one hand on a bowl of custard as evidence of his mischief, the other upon his chest in shock. He jerked his head to the left and the right.

The kitchen was empty.

“Who’s there? I demand you come out!” He asserted, despite the trembling of his voice.

The Baronet often demanded things, and he often got them.

“Oh do ya?”

Once again, Callum peered about the kitchen, which seemed to have expanded in its emptiness.

“Who’s there?”

“ _Who’s there_?” It repeated in a high pitched voice.

Callum turned toward the garden door, certain the voice came from behind it, and caught a flash.

A quick, nearly-not-there movement but he caught it.

“You! Stop!” He grabbed the custard he had poured and ran out into the gardens.

He saw something running afar and took off after it, his legs working faster than his mind, and Stuart’s custard held protectively to his chest.

“Stop!” He wheezed, rounding the rosebush, and zigzagging between the trees as the wily creature laughed riotously ahead of him.

The thing turned to the right and Callum thought _aha!_ as he kept racing forward, going past the flowerbeds instead of turning like the ruffian had.

He only turned right a few paces later and met the thing with a _smack_ that had the two of them flying.

“Oof!” It yelped, falling backwards, as did Callum and his bowl of custard. It dolloped upon his mouth and chin, a drop dribbling down to his front.

Instead of apologising, the brute fell onto his back and laughed.

“I’m – I’m covered in custard!” He had never felt so undignified.

It ceased its laughing and came up onto its side, and as it rested on an elbow, his head laying in the palm of his hand, Callum realised the creature was not a creature at all.

In fact, it was a boy.

And not only that, it seemed he was of the same age as Callum too.

“You’re _proper_ covered!” He said, cheeks still pink from laughter. “You look ridiculous.”

And that set him off again, as he threw his head back and hooted.

Callum looked down at himself, his legs splayed, and imagined his face yellowed. He supposed he did look ridiculous.

He giggled, a burst of silliness bubbling in his gut and bursting into something greater. Happiness.

He looked over at the boy, the carefree way in which he lay in the grass and shook in hysterics, and it transformed his giggle into full-blown, uncontrollable laughter.

“I do look ridiculous.” He said in between a chuckle.

The boy considered him for a moment, with blue eyes brightened in amusement and wet from laughing too hard, and nodded.

Then, he flashed Callum a grin, displaying his teeth in a manner that was neither polite nor imperfect, and sat up.

In an effort to compose himself too, Callum tucked his legs underneath him and sat straighter.

“You ain’t poor.” The boy said, tilting his head thoughtfully.

“No, I suppose I am not.” Callum replied, unsure of where this was going. He had no clear idea of what boys talked about, what boys _did_ , except that they chased one another and laughed at the other’s misfortune.

“So why are you stealing from the kitchens?”

“It’s not stealing if it is from my own kitchen.”

“ _You’re_ Sir Jonno’s kid?”

“How do you know the Baronet?”

The boy scrunched his face. “You call your father ‘the Baronet’?”

“What do you call yours?”

He let out a soft huff, “Fair enough.”

A silence descended upon them, not undesirable but Callum broke it with anyway.

“My name’s Callum.” He tumbled out the words, clumsy as he got on to his knees and reached across to shake the boy’s hand. He had some decorum after all.

“Custard Callum.” He snorted, but he shook his hand regardless. “Ben.”

“Ben.” He repeated, smiling despite the nickname, holding on to the boy’s grip.

The boy, _Ben_ , smiled back, and then let his hand go, using it to push his brown locks from his forehead.

“I like your hair.” Callum heard himself saying.

Ben snorted again, but his ears pinked at the comment.

They sat in silence, and Callum noted that Ben did not look at him for a while after that.

Boys did not compliment each other, he assumed.

Ben, amidst his new goal of tearing bits of grass around him, mumbled something.

“Pardon?”

“I _said_ ,” a whistle of annoyance under his voice, “you’re a fast runner.”

“Oh!” Maybe boys did compliment each other after all. “Thank you!”

Ben shrugged, finally lifting his head towards Callum, although admittedly not making eye contact.

“Are you ill?” Callum asked, unnerved.

“ _No_ , why’d’ya say that?”

“Your face has gone a shade of scarlet.”

“It ain’t.” The boy protested, turning away from Callum.

Callum’s heart dropped, how could he be so _hopeless_ at this? Maybe the Baronet was right in locking him up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you!” He cried at Ben’s back, moving so he could crawl towards the boy. “It’s just – I don’t really know what to say, I only ever have one friend to speak to, and whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me!”

Ben sniffed and turned back around, his knees touching Callum’s. “It’s okay. I ain’t offended, I’m just embarrassed.”

He offered Callum a small, genuine smile, the sight of it calming his panic.

“Why were you embarrassed?” He asked, around a sigh of relief.

Ben lifted a shoulder in response, then furrowed his brow. “You only have one friend?”

“The Baronet does not let me out. It is only my brother and I. He is all I have got.”

Ben appraised Callum, who in turn fidgeted under the scrutiny.

“Is he your best friend?”

Callum pursed his lips in thought. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

Ben nodded, seemingly contemplating Callum’s predicament.

“Ain’t you friends with your sweetheart?”

“My…sweetheart?” Callum had not heard of such a thing.

“Don’t you have a sweetheart?”

Callum shrugged helplessly.

Ben sighed, coming up to his knees and mirroring Callum. “Don’t ya know what a sweetheart is?”

Callum shook his head.

The small boy tutted, but it was in good humour. “A sweetheart is like a friend,” he began to explain, “but for the rest of your life.”

“I will be friends with Stuart for the rest of my life.”

“Not like Stuart!” He said with widened eyes. “Like, someone who,” he flapped his hands around in dismay, “who you will spend forever with. And build a new life with.”

Callum was not sure why he was not able to spend forever with Stuart, but Ben seemed to be struggling and so he changed his question. “Is a sweetheart good?”

“The best,” nodded Ben. “They make you whole.”

“Who decides a sweetheart?”

“They say the vicar. But,” he paused, looking around as though he was about to share a crucial secret, “I think it’s someone greater. Some _thing_ greater.”

“Something like what?” Asked Callum in a whisper, hanging on to Ben’s words like silk.

“I’m not sure yet.” He breathed.

Callum nodded, and even though he did not quite understand this talk of sweethearts and great things, Ben sparkled as he spoke of them, and that made Callum appreciate it all the same.

Ben’s eyes rose from Callum’s to his forehead.

“You have nice hair too.” He muttered, bringing his fingers to ruffle Callum’s hair in jest.

“Do you have a best friend, Ben?”

He nodded microscopically, as if with guilt. “You would make friends with Jay instantly, though.”

“A sweetheart?”

“No.” He sighed, although it was relieved rather than wistful. “Not yet. Jay does. She’s called Lola.”

“I could be your sweetheart.” He suggested, for Ben already had a friend, and he probably did not need anymore.

Ben, unfortunately, chuckled at this, shaking his head.

When he calmed, he smiled fondly up at Callum, lifting a hand to his jaw.

“Custard Callum.” He said softly, letting his eyes fall below Callum’s mouth and upon his chin.

He swiped his index finger across it, collecting up custard and then licking his finger of it. He brought his forefinger to Callum’s face again, this time ghosting it across his lips, lingering custard attaching itself to his fingertip.

Callum watched as Ben’s tongue lapped at the dessert, only averting his gaze when Ben raised his eyebrows.

 _He must think me a fool_ , despaired Callum, _an odd boy who stares too much and says the wrong things and who he doesn’t want as a sweetheart._

“Hey,” Ben whispered, tucking a finger under Callum’s chin. “Don’t dwell on it, boys can’t be sweethearts. But,” he paused so Callum would look back at him, “I’ll be your friend.”

Callum’s heart swelled to a size too big.

“You will?” He asked eagerly.

In his elation, Callum brought his arms up and around the smaller boy’s neck, smothering his _of course I will_ , the vigour of his action causing Ben to fall on to his back.

“Ooh, get off me you oaf!” He wheezed, but Callum heard the grin in his words.

“I am not an oaf, I am your friend.”

“You’re both, you heavy thing!” He laughed.

Callum had never heard laughter as free as Ben’s.

He rolled off him, and the two lay on their backs, Callum feeling the velvety grass blades between his fingers.

“I like having friends.” Callum said, after some time, the ground soft beneath his palm.

“I like you.” Ben admitted, and Callum turned his head to see his eyelashes flutter closed as he pressed his lips together. Callum supposed Ben did not like to compliment people.

“I like you too.” He replied quietly.

His downturned hand bumped into Ben’s.

“Yeah?” Ben asked, with an insecurity that Callum could not believe of the boy.

Callum’s little finger crept over Ben’s and slotted into place.

“Yeah.”

Ben smiled contently at that, which Callum knew because he was staring at the boy’s dimples, the apples of his cheeks, the trailing freckles and the promise of some _thing_ behind his lips.

Ben grumbled light-heartedly, wiping his front, “You got some custard on me.” Callum giggled. “Why were you running around with a bowl?”

Callum sat up. “My soiree!”

“ _Your_ soiree?” Ben grimaced.

“How long have we been here? The Baronet is going to be angry!” Callum cried, scrambling to his feet. “I need to go. I need to go right away!”

Ben watched Callum’s eyes grow wilder and nodded.

Again, the insecurity flickered in his expressing, and Callum read it instantaneously.

He clasped the boy’s hands for a moment. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

Ben swallowed, and then nodded.

“Then we will see each other again, will we not?”

“I hope so.” He murmured.

Callum squeezed his hand. “I will see you again, Ben.” Ben squeezed back.

It was a promise.

And then the boy’s hand fell from his and Callum turned and sprinted back into the manor and through the hallways and past the staff and up the staircase to the dining room, overcome with such anxiety that he didn’t wonder who Ben was or what he was doing in his garden.

He was out of breath when he reached the room, dizzied from a rushing feeling that would manifest into a headache later.

He entered, and at once noticed his and Stuart’s rock-chair was no longer unoccupied. Their magnificent plaything invaded.

The Baronet sat in it grandly, though he was anything but, and it groaned under his weight.

The dining room was bare of company, apart from Stuart, who sat with his arms crossed and his head down.

“You missed the end of your party.” He said in a stony voice, eyes planted on Stuart.

“I’m sorry. I spilt custard and went to wash.”

If he believed the tale or not was entirely irrelevant, as he kept his focus on his brother, developing a deranged smirk upon his mouth.

“You missed the announcement.”

“Announcement?”

“Your brother has found a job.”

At this, Stuart shook in his place, sniffing. Callum felt a dread lick his spine. In all his years, he had never seen his brother cry.

“What’s to happen?”

“ _What’s to happen_?” He jeered. “Well, he’s moving close to the mines, isn’t he?”

“What will the gentry say?” Whimpered Stuart, tears forming in the corners of his wide eyes, making him look like the small boy who hid under the rock-chair with Callum. “What nobleman works underground?”

Stuart wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and Sir Jonno laughed humourlessly.

“You do not act like a nobleman. And besides, the gentry can be damned to hell.”

Callum heard himself sharply intake a breath. The Baronet swearing only meant one thing. His gut flipped as he saw the emptied bottles of wine.

“Sir, please don’t do this.” He said quietly, but with all the strength he could muster.

“And who are you, boy, to be giving me orders?” The man bellowed, pushing up from the chair and kicking it behind him, the wood marking its fall with an impressive thud.

The man towered above Callum, who looked down at his feet. This was short-lived, as he was yanked by his hair to meet his father’s dark eyes.

“Say sorry.” He demanded, breathing hotly upon his face.

“I don’t want Stuart to go.” He said under his breath, but the Baronet heard it, and wrenched his hair.

“Say. Sorry.”

Callum yelped as hot pain swiped his scalp. “I’m sorry!”

“Not good enough!” A thunder came over his countenance, and he used his grip on the boy to throw him back, his head hitting the floor before anything else.

Callum felt the unmistakeable darkness of the Baronet approach him, and he shielded himself with his forearm, preparing himself for the blow.

“No!”

He brought his arm down, seeing that Stuart had come to stand in between the two.

“Will you defy me too?” Challenged the reptile but Stuart brought his hands in front of him.

“No! I’ll go! I’ll go tonight - I’ll go now! Please, _please_ , just let him be!”

The man scowled at Callum, and then at Stuart, but nodded. “You will leave at once?”

“I will.”

“Very well. Someone has already packed your things.”

The older boy nodded solemnly.

Callum came to a terrifying understanding that this is what the Baronet had wanted all along. 

“Stuart, please.” He whispered, standing up. The boy shook his head, silently telling Callum to stay quiet.

“I will go. And you will not hear from me, barring when you collect my wages.” Stuart asserted. “But promise me you will not lay a finger on Callum.”

The evil man chuckled.

“Give me your word.”

“You make a lot of demands don’t you?”

“Stuart!”

“Not now, Callum. Give me your word that you will not harm him, and I will go right now.”

The Baronet looked Stuart up and down in disdain but sighed. “You have my word.”

Stuart nodded, and exhaled.

“Why are you still here? I want you gone right away.”

 _No_ , thought Callum, _this can’t be it._ One conversation and his entire reality flipped upon its head? His friend leaving in a matter of minutes with no real goodbye? He looked between the Baronet and his brother, who was making his way out.

He took a step to follow him but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“Stay.”

“But I must say goodbye.” _At least afford me that._

He laughed, “You can watch him from the window if it will stop you from blubbering.”

Callum looked up at the man seizing his shoulder and found that an evil shrouded his features. This was not done for money. It was done out of cruelty.

He heard the front door and freed himself from the snaring grip, taking off after his brother.

He prized the heavy front door open, huffing and awash with relief that Stuart was still there. He threw his arms around him.

“Oh, please brother, take me with you.” He begged.

He felt Stuart shake his head. And then gentle hands on his forearm urged him to look at Stuart.

“I will come back for you.”

“You promise?”

Stuart nodded, determination etched into his eyes, “Even death will not stop me.”

And he turned before Callum could say anything more.

Later that night, for his impertinence, Sir Jonno broke the promise he had made to Stuart.

And he sat silently by the window, blood dribbling down his front, watching the gardens for sign of life.

They were empty.

The whole manor felt empty.

His reflection, a small and alone thing, melded into the night sky and he wondered if he could go to the stars instead.

Still, the moonlight provided some comfort.

He brought his hand to the cold glass, letting the chilliness soothe him, closing his eyes in an attempt to doze off.

Callum did not dream that night, squirming in and out of sleep instead. Amongst unconsciousness, though, where he truly was free of his loathsome father, he wondered what he had done for him to be fouled with such fate.

Perhaps it was his own fault.

It could not be a coincidence, he supposed, that on the very eve he finally made a new friend, he lost his oldest one.


End file.
